Ace of Spades

by Faridah Àbíké-Íyímídé

  “There was another name I saw…” Devon mutters. I look over at the screen as he types in Patricia Jacobs 1975. I watch him search through the results. Rows of text, rows of images scroll past. Patricia Jacobs Niveus, he types next. Patricia Jacobs Aces. Patricia Jacobs Bullying. Patricia Jacobs dropout.

  “It’s like they don’t exist,” I say, feeling a dull ache in my chest.

  “Yeah,” Devon replies, looking dejected and anxious, as I imagine I do. I don’t even know what to think anymore.

  The warning bell rings loudly.

  “We’re going to have to go to class, act normal. Let’s meet up at lunch. Morgan Library; we can talk more then, maybe even gather more evidence,” I tell him, trying not to sound as panicked as I feel. I hold back the rest of what I want to say, but I know he’s probably thinking it too.

  Aces is about race, and someone powerful at the school has made it their mission to create a group to get rid of me and Devon.

  And they’re winning.

  I have even more questions than answers, like who that girl really was and how she’s connected to this racist plot. How many people are involved? How far does this go?

  Are we safer here, where the masked figures lurk in corners wearing the faces of our former friends behind the plastic, or at home, where it is so quiet and anyone could do anything?

  I have one final thought as we exit the lab separately.

  This might be our last week at Niveus Private Academy.

  29

  DEVON

  Monday

  The bell rings. I’ve done nothing for the whole of first period. I’ve just sat at my keyboard, staring at it blankly, head spinning. I didn’t sleep last night, so I downed a cup of cheap coffee from one of the vending machines, but it just made me more jittery. More anxious.

  Terrell called last night to ask how it went, and I wanted to tell him, but I couldn’t. I thought Chiamaka should be the first to hear it. It’s messing me up. I feel shaky all the time, like there’s a masked monster behind me, watching my every move.

  “Devon?” Mr. Taylor’s voice cuts through my thoughts.

  I turn to look at him. “I was just about to leave—I have this headache.”

  He nods, hesitating before saying, “I noticed you weren’t playing; is everything okay?”

  One of the unspoken laws I grew up with was Don’t be a snitch. Even though every part of my body is fighting it, I say, “I feel like a lot’s happening.”

  I can feel the hood-me slapping the private school boy seated in this chair around the face, threatening me.

  Mr. Taylor isn’t like other teachers, I tell myself. I feel safe around him, and he’s always wanted the best for me. I asked him on Friday if he’d found out who was behind the posters, and he told me that he hadn’t but that he’d be keeping an eye out for me.

  “What’s up?” Mr. Taylor pulls out a seat and leans in.

  I rub my face. “I think I know who put up those posters. And the people who did that are still spreading rumors around about me and my … friend. I thought I could handle it, but it’s only gotten worse. I think we’re in danger, and I think we need someone to help us stop it before it’s too late.”

  I shouldn’t have come in today. What I saw told me that Niveus itself is somehow at the center of this all, but Chiamaka wasn’t answering her phone and I needed to tell her. I should have told her and left, taking her with me.

  Instead of using my common sense, I found myself wandering off to music class, like a zombie. I even saw Daniel. He smiled his big handsome smile at me, but all I could see was his name on that list, and him pretending to be nice to me but ruining my life behind my back.

  I can’t “act normal” when I know something really fucked up and dangerous is going on. I shouldn’t have listened to her. I shouldn’t have stayed.

  The wrinkles on Mr. Taylor’s face bunch up on his forehead. “I was once in high school too. Kids can be horrible, so I can imagine what you’re going through.” Something in his eyes changes; it’s a small flicker, but I notice it. Sympathy, I want to say, but it feels like something different. “Especially with college applications coming up, I know how stressful it can be,” he finishes.

  I nod. “Juilliard is the only thing keeping me sane right now.” This piece is coming together—kind of. I think Terrell was right about the drums. The drums will definitely make it better, but then what if it’s still not good enough?

  I look up at Mr. Taylor, who is looking at me with a smile on his face. I’m not sure why.

  “You’re applying to Juilliard?” he asks. Which is so strange, because, obviously. He and I discussed it at length at the end of junior year. It’s all I’ve been working toward.

  I don’t feel like I can give an answer to that, I’m so confused. But I nod slowly.

  “Son—” A laugh jerks out of his mouth, then another, and then he’s full-on laughing. “I’m sorry—I just—seeing your face—I can’t keep this up,” he says between breaths, laughing like I told a really funny joke, slapping his knee with exaggeration, basically screaming. “Son, you’re not going to Juilliard.” He wipes his eyes and I feel something sink.

  What the fuck? I know it’s hard to get into and everything, but … Mr. Taylor doesn’t sound like Mr. Taylor right now. He’s the most optimistic person I know; he encourages all of us to do things we want to do—he’s encouraged me since I joined.

  “What?” I manage, my throat burning. “Why?”

  He reaches forward and plays B-flat on my keyboard.

  “They tend to only accept high-achieving students…”

  “I get straight As in all my classes,” I say.

  His voice lowers. “I wasn’t finished.” He stands, towering over me, and places his hand in his gray pants pocket. “They also tend to be pretty strict on class attendance—which, if my memory serves me right, is pretty poor for you.”

  What the actual fuck?

  “I thought seniors were allowed to do that?” I say breathlessly.

  “Of course they can … with sign-off from a teacher,” he says, like that’s not exactly what I did.

  He gave me permission; he said I could; he told me it was okay, he—

  “I—I thought you sorted it out?” I stammer.

  “Son, you should never leave your fate in the hands of someone else,” Mr. Taylor says, stepping back now. His eyes, which were a light, soft blue, now look like a gray storm.

  “You told me you sorted it out,” I repeat like a broken record. He told me he sorted it out. “That it was okay to practice whenever I needed to.” My voice rises, and the bile in my stomach itches to crawl through my throat and spew all over him and his suit.

  Mr. Taylor walks back over to his piano and strokes his fingers across the keys as a loud, discordant pattern of notes screeches out.

  “That I did. But it’s okay, it’s okay…” He pats the air, like he’s patting me from afar. “It’s okay not to go to college, it’s okay.” Smiling wide. “Not all people are suited for higher education. Especially your kind. Your kind needn’t have an education.”

  I want to scream for help, but he’s suddenly up and by the door now, blocking the entrance. And anyway, who is going to help me?

  Mr. Taylor is one of them.

  “Why?” I whisper. “Why are you doing this?”

  Mr. Taylor’s face morphs, his expression confused. Like the answer is so obvious, and I can’t see it. He leans back against the oak doorframe.

  “Because I can.”

  He turns and leaves, and the door to the classroom closes behind him, slamming shut, bang, like a gun.

  This doesn’t feel real. This can’t be real. Mr. Taylor; Jack; Daniel … all these people I’ve known for years, trying to ruin my life. But I know it is. This is happening.

  I shove my things into my bag and rush out, running down the stairs so fast that I almost trip and fall. I’m terrified of bumping into Mr. Taylor. I’m terrified they’re all watching me.
I have to leave; I have to get out—but I need to take Chiamaka with me.

  I dial her number, hoping she’s found her phone by now.

  Voicemail.

  I call her again. Nothing.

  I run across the school, checking random rooms, the libraries, the girls’ bathroom even. Chiamaka’s nowhere to be found. She’s probably in class. We should have left sooner. Should have jumped to conclusions, should have pieced everything together.

  I rub my eyes roughly. I need to leave. I need to get help.

  I push through the big entrance doors, out into the open air.

  “Hey! Stop right there!” a deep voice says. I feel spikes at the back of my neck. This feels like one of those nightmares I used to have when I was young, where I was trapped inside a cell of some kind, screaming for help, but no one would hear my pleas over the sound of the evil nightmare monster’s laughter.

  I run as fast as I can toward the black gates, slamming the exit button by the steps.

  I need to get out.

  The gates start to open, grinding slowly, until suddenly they stop.

  I want to scream, I’ve got to run.

  I stumble, looking back at Headmaster Ward, a remote control gripped in his bony fingers. I look at the gap in between the gates; it’s small, but I can make it. I jump through just as the gates start closing, wrenching my bag through as the metal clinks together.

  I turn one last time. Ward is at the top of the stairs, expressionless as he watches me.

  He takes a step forward and my heart jumps out of my chest as I run and run and keep running.

  30

  CHIAMAKA

  Monday

  It feels weird being here in class, taking notes like nothing’s happened. Eyeballs itch the back of my neck, and I dig the lead of the pencil into the page, gripping it hard as the teacher’s words go over my head.

  I tap my leg against the chair, desperately waiting for the bell to go off.

  The bell rings.

  I gather my things as voices mesh together over the bell, chairs scrape the floor, tables move, and people pad out of the classroom. I hear the sound of a few text tones, but I’m already out the door, head down, as I storm through the hallway toward Morgan Library. I need to see Devon and show him something I saw in the library on Sunday before I saw her—and I desperately want my phone back.

  I push open the doors of Morgan, which creak loudly. My heart beats fast as they close behind me, cutting off the hubbub outside. I scan the room, bending and looking beneath the tables we sat under last night. I spot my silver phone case and I sigh with relief.

  “Thank God,” I mutter, before reaching out to grab it.

  Surprisingly, it hasn’t died yet, but I have one million and one messages from Devon and one from Belle.

  Sorry I can’t be with you today, will miss you though x—B

  I smile down at the message.

  School sucks without you, get better soon so that I have your face to look at when I feel down x—C

  Ha, I’ll try x—B

  I stare at the message for a few moments before pocketing my phone. I feel like Belle is the only good thing in my life right now. I’m scared of Aces ruining that too somehow.

  The bookshelves are filled with every book known to man—which isn’t an overexaggeration. I read once that Niveus gets sent a copy of any book published in the country, which is pretty impressive, I’ll admit. My eyes fall on the books on the bottom row.

  This section of the library is empty. No one at the computers. I stare at computer 17. It’s watching me … like any moment it will transfigure into the girl, tackle me to the ground, lift its scary mask, and smile.

  A gentle laugh distracts me, my face heating up when I hear the familiar sound of people kissing. I inch forward, not wanting the couple to be alerted by my presence. Kneeling, I reach out for one of the yearbooks—1965—and take a seat on the floor, by the shelves, as I run my fingers down its hard navy spine before I reach the sharply contrasting red of the flag at the bottom. The Confederate flag.

  I gaze up at the wall of creepy photos, hundreds of white faces watching me. And in the odd photo, Black faces stare out, wearing blank expressions, their hair beaten into submission like mine. The Black faces aren’t always in the photos. That’s to be expected. Most good schools didn’t let people who looked like me in, and when they did, it wasn’t many of us. I can’t imagine what life would have been like for them, having protesters outside their schools every day, parents complaining about their existence there. Like they were these dangerous criminals, just because their skin was brown and not cream.

  I look at all of them closely, tracing their faces in each photograph.

  Wait a minute …

  My eyes scan the pictures over and over, the thrumming in my rib cage making me feel jittery.

  1965 … 1975 … 1985 … The Black students … they all just … disappear. Their senior year.

  Opening the yearbook, I search for their dark faces, eventually landing on a section titled “Camp Aces 1965.” One hundred years later, we proudly live up to our ancestors’ legacy, I read. A hundred years before would be 1865 … the end of the Civil War. The war that preceded the abolition of slavery.

  My heart racing, I scan the large photo of men in dated Niveus uniforms, staring at me. In each of their hands is the same playing card: the ace of spades.

  A chill trickles down my spine. I stare at the men, pausing when I spot the face of a familiar student who grins at me in the corner of the page. Greasy hair—as black as the night—slicked back, face gaunt, and spindly, bony fingers wrapped around the same playing card.

  It looks just like …

  Headmaster Ward?

  But that can’t be …

  I take my phone out, messaging Devon.

  Hello?

  You better show up.

  Devon, this isn’t the time to ghost me.

  You have ten more minutes to show before I get really mad

  I’m about to message him another threat when I feel my phone buzz.

  A notification from Facebook.

  [Belle Robinson has posted a new picture]

  It’s a throwback to her by some lake with a crocodile casually in the shot. I like it, scrolling to comment, but pause as a comment pops up from a Martha Robinson: That croc would make a cute handbag.

  I click Martha’s profile. The page loads slowly, her info appearing first. She’s a few years older than us, and she and I have two mutual friends: Jamie Fitzjohn and Belle Robinson.

  Belle hardly mentions her family, but then again I never mention mine—though at least she’s met them.

  A part of me wonders if Belle doesn’t think I’m the sort of person you’d take to meet family. Jamie’s clearly met Martha. Parents always like him, mine included. Like me, parents can’t see through his façade; they can’t see that his charm is manufactured and underneath it all lies a really terrifying person.

  I refresh the page again, wanting to snoop some more. Martha must be her sister.

  The page finally loads fully and the first picture pops up, Martha’s photos appearing one by one.

  Blond hair. There are tremors in my head.

  White skin. Searing pain in my stomach.

  Her piercing scream. Numbness in my hands.

  So much blood.

  31

  DEVON

  Monday

  I’m sitting on Terrell’s bed, chest aching, as he stares at me.

  “So, let me get this straight.” Terrell has his mad scientist look on his face. “Every ten years, you think they’ve been admitting two Black students, letting them settle in, then screwing them over and trying to ruin their lives?”

  I nod.

  “And who is Aces?”

  “A whole bunch of people at school—students … I saw a list of names—names I recognize.” The memory of Jack’s name sends pangs all over my body. “And I think the teachers are involved too.” Mr. Taylor’s laugh ech
oes hollowly in my memory. I’m still freaked out. “They all seem to have tasks. And they do this until we have no choice but to drop out, I guess, our futures ruined, or I don’t know … worse.”

  “Fuck.” Terrell moves off the bed and sits in front of his old battered computer screen. “Ever researched your school?” he asks, typing Niveus into the search engine. Bullshit is on the table next to the mouse, staring at me like I’m invading his space. Maybe I am.

  “Well, yeah, kind of, when Ma put me up for the scholarship, but not properly.”

  “Did you know niveus means ‘white’ in Latin?”

  I shake my head; of course it does.

  Terrell types in Niveus Private Academy this time, then hits enter.

  “These people are slick as fuck, but not that slick,” he says, his voice quiet as he concentrates on the screen. “It’s almost like they want you to find this shit. Like they’re proud of it. I mean, right here it says that the school was founded by some of the biggest funders of slavery—popular plantation owners, merchants and bankers who financed operations. It’s all here, you don’t have to go looking too far.”

  My head swims and I zone out, the shock making it hard to process it all. Terrell goes on about the school’s founders, but I close my eyes, thinking about the money Ma put into that school, just to get me through. All for nothing. We have struggled every day, every fucking day, and it won’t mean a thing.

  “Von.”

  I snap out of it and look at Terrell.

  “Hmm?”

  “The school was founded in 1717. Isn’t it more than coincidence that the computer they use to do all this shit on is computer 17?”

  Yeah …

  Coincidence …

  My heart beats fast as I look at Terrell, his hair jolting as he types, focused.

  “Terrell,” I say cautiously. “How did you know that?”

  He looks at me. “What? That the school was founded in 1717? It says it right here.”

  I shake my head, organs shaking, mind shaking, everything shaking.